


Unquenchable

by BlushingNewb



Series: Forces of Nature [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arson, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Peril, Pyromania, References to Drugs, Romance, bathrobe in public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the summer's height, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson take on a destructive serial killer with an ardent desire for revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apparition

**Author's Note:**

> Story is now complete! Chapters 8 and 9 posted together.

He heard rumors of the golden grasses of Nāwa-I-Barakzāy shortly after arriving in Helmand Province. For Captain John Watson, the unseen grasses promise some beauty and variety in opposition to the flat sands surrounding Camp Bastion, which became tiresome after just a few short weeks. He still somewhat regrets the initial transfer from Kandahar, but he is his regiment’s doctor, and he goes where they go. They are travelling in a convoy now to a newly-established base; the growing unrest south of Lashkar Gah has warranted this attention. He’s seated inside the transport staring at his hands when he feels the impact of the explosion before he hears it. His vehicle stops, unaffected. The other soldiers pop open the doors and Captain Watson grips his rifle, remaining seated but fidgeting restlessly. He scowls, hating the necessity behind his immobility, but a surgeon cannot impulsively risk himself when there are many lives who may come to who depend on his.

It’s completely quiet outside, however; there are no hostile forces in sight and it seems that the IED is an isolated incident. It hit the vehicle directly behind them, and at the first all-clear signal John runs to it, glimpsing green grass all around him. The transport has been ripped open and a sinking feeling comes over him. In the wreckage he sees the shaking arm of a rifleman and he directs a CMT to drag him to one of the other intact vehicles. Standard procedure is to retrieve the wounded and transport them to safety. As he surveys the decimated vehicle he notices a corporal whose legs are badly mangled; he’s still conscious, so he pulls him toward his Land Rover. Before he can he reach the shadow of the truck, the corporal coughs blood and collapses. The soldiers who rode with Watson are alternately scanning the horizon and looking for other survivors when the calm is shattered by another explosion.

The strident staccato of gunfire fills the air but the captain is focused on getting the injured man to safety. He bends to one knee to hook his arms under the corporal when he’s slammed hard from behind, falling across the man to the ground.

_and in my dreams I’m on a wolf’s back,_

_riding in a forest…_

_where there’s fire singing at night_

The thud of his head hitting the ground echoes in his ears…he shouts…the thud...a wetness on his chest…

Thud!

“Watson!”

“The corporal! There’s a pulmonary laceration!”

_please, God, let me live_

John woke up to the sound of his own strangled screaming as sunlight streamed into his room – _their_ room – and he looked around, reorienting. This was Baker Street and he had been dreaming; it was clearly morning. He hadn’t been in Helmand Province in nearly six years. John sat up and ran one hand over his damp forehead. It was Friday and there was an overpowering smell of rotten eggs in the air. John bought eggs on Wednesday. There should not be an eggy smell this soon in the week.

A dark head popped into the bedroom. Eyes partially obscured by goggles radiated concern.

“John? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

The artfully innocent tone of the question only served to foment John’s wariness. He was not in the mood for Sherlock’s theatrics, particularly after an unexpected trip down memory lane. His dark suspicions increased exponentially when he saw that his friend’s grey shirt was covered in yellow powder. He jumped out of bed and pushed past him into the kitchen.

“Oh, what in the bleeding fuck….?”

He stood with his hands in his hair, entirely hypnotized by the sight of what had happened to their kitchen. Not one but two fire extinguishers lay on the floor, providing an explanation for the noises John had heard in his dreams. A white film covered the table, countertops and surrounding floor space. The overhanging fluorescent lamp was completely shattered and a dark smoke stain stretched across the ceiling. Sherlock’s microscope was lying relatively unharmed in his chair in the sitting room; John assumed it had been hastily rescued at the first sign of danger. He checked the floor where he was standing for shards and, to his relief, found none. His friend padded up quietly behind him.

“Hmm, in retrospect the quantity of sulfur may have been out of adjustment.”

“Ah, you think? That’s a shame.”

John turned back into the bedroom and stuffed his feet into a pair of shoes. He snatched up his robe and wallet and strode into the sitting room. He was already pulling on his robe and reaching for yesterday’s paper when Sherlock stopped him.

“John, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You’re leaving?”

“That is correct, Sherlock Holmes. I’m going out.”

“Where?”

“You’ve made it impossible to reach the kettle or toaster, not to mention what kind of toxic shit might be all over everything else – make a deduction as to my destination.”

He stamped meaningfully toward the exit of the flat.

“John…I’m sorry.”

“Yes, that’s well and good of course, but why don’t you give me a ring when you’ve managed to clean up this fucking mess! I’m not helping you sort this one out, you lazy sod, not when you managed to wake me up early on one of my off days.”

“You’re not attributing your nightmare to the unexpected results of my experiment, surely?”

“Right, that’s it, then. I’m off.”

He turned in a fit of fury, tramping down the stairs only to run into Mrs. Hudson, who had already assembled a bucket of solvents and was wearing rubber gloves.

“Oh, dear, John, he’s done it now, hadn’t he?”

John just shook his head.

“You’re only wearing your pajamas and robe, you know, dear. What will people say?”

He turned around.

“Don’t care. And if I were you, Mrs. Hudson, I wouldn’t bother helping him. You’re not our housekeeper. I’ll stay away as long as it takes for him to clean that shit up. There’s a loo at the café and they know me there.”

* * *

Three hours later, John sat drinking his fourth cup of coffee and eating a scone at the café a couple of blocks away from Baker Street. He pointedly ignored the strange looks he received from the other shop patrons – it wasn’t as if he weren’t completely covered and appropriately shod. There were far stranger sights in London than a fortysomething man in a bathrobe.

 _10:17am - The sulfur residue and broken glass have been dispensed with appropriately._ **_SH_**

 John leisurely perused the paperback he had purchased at the corner store, his chin perched on one hand.

_10:29am - The kitchen and cookware have been sanitized. **SH**_

He looked over his fingernails speculatively and took a final bite of the blueberry scone.

_10:41am - Milk still fresh and unaffected by experiment. Kettle’s just boiled. Did the corporal survive? **SH**_

John threw his rubbish in the bin, tucked the book under his arm and left the café.

* * *

Sherlock was languorously stretched out on the sofa, attired in a perfectly pressed white shirt and black trousers, apparently unaffected by the morning’s exertions. John narrowed his eyes, suspicious of some deception on his friend’s part. But the kitchen was indeed sanitized, though it appeared starker than John had ever seen it. Sherlock would definitely have to compensate Mrs. Hudson for a replacement table and restock his supply of fire extinguishers. There was a noticeable absence of lab equipment, and he had to conclude that it was all totally destroyed in this morning’s catastrophe. He almost felt sorry for Sherlock – almost. There were two mugs with teabags in them on the bare counter, still steaming.

John finished preparing their tea and walked back over to the sofa, where Sherlock unceremoniously lifted his legs, making a space for him. John sat down and the feet were draped back down onto his lap. Wordlessly, John held out his mug to him; he shifted and took it from him.

“Bit not good, talking about the nightmare?”

Sherlock stared into his mug, waiting.

“No, it’s…fine. It could have been handled a little better, though. It’s true that your experiment didn’t cause it, but that wasn’t the best time to remind me of that. I don’t mind you asking about the nightmares, if you have specific questions.”

“I’m asking now.”

John sighed and looked at his friend.

“No, he didn’t survive, Corporal Godwin. He had a punctured lung. We were just on a routine trip to the new base and we got caught up in an unexpected firefight. There was no way in that situation he would have gotten up.”

“But you did,” Sherlock said, stating the obvious. John knew that he only did this when imparting emotionally significant information; at any other time, such facile statements were beneath him.

“Yeah,” he said, sighing again.

Sherlock reached out to link his fingers with his and John smiled at him.

“John, do the words ‘in my dreams I’m on a wolf’s back, riding in a forest _’_ mean anything to you?”

“No, why? Don’t think I’ve ever heard them before. Have you?”

“Hmm, just wondering if it was something I’d deleted.”

“Are you in the habit of deleting things I might have said?”

“No, you shouldn’t worry. I’ve never deleted anything about you. I’ve also got you on my backup hard drive.”

John felt incredibly pleased by this and his smile stretched wider.

“I’m very glad. It means there’s hope you won’t destroy the kitchen for another month.”

They both chuckled.

“Are we still on for tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t we be? You’ve managed to tidy the kitchen. Unless something big happens we’ll be there for opening night.”

* * *

John was doing up the buttons on his shirt when Sherlock paused by the wardrobe, holding up two jackets, considering. John asked,

“It’s alright I’m going without a jacket, then?”

“Oh, yes, there’s really no dress code. And that shirt looks well on you.”

It was a dark ocean blue, almost navy, button-up in a plush, satiny cotton. He didn’t usually wear designer clothing, but the style of this shirt was still conservative enough for his taste. It was luxurious but subtle. John smiled at his lover.

“Yeah, well someone special gave it to me for Christmas. Said something about it complementing my eyes, whatever that meant. It’s pretty posh for me, but I like it.”

Sherlock put on the jacket that must have been superior, even though they both appeared identical to John.

“But the aftershave, John….what is that? What was wrong with the other?”

“Well, you know, I finished up the old and thought I’d give this one a try. Harry got it for my birthday.”

One eyebrow was raised in query. Sherlock was surprisingly reluctant about certain changes John made to his routine.

“There was nothing wrong with the old kind. I don’t know if I like this.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll use it up and then buy no more of it. No point in letting it go to waste.”

“If you insist.”

* * *

After dinner, at which John convinced Sherlock to indulge in five pieces of sushi, the men got in a cab. They were halfway down Oxford Street when the call came in from Lestrade. Sherlock listened briefly before interrupting,

“A fire is not…oh…well, you should have said.”

His tone became more animated.

“Yes, send it. Where? Yes, then.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. He turned to John after pressing the end call button, and said,

“The Opera House will have to wait for another night. Someone’s sent us a message, and we’ve got to go to Northwood.”

“Whew, that’s quite a trip. Is it worth it?”

~media message received from **GL** ~

The two men pressed together to peer at the picture on Sherlock’s phone. John raised his eyebrows in surprise and said,

“Oh, that’s…yes, I think that’s definitely for us.”

Positioned in the middle of a street was a large smiley face, drawn in flames.


	2. Danse

They met Lestrade at 61 Verde Street in Moor Park at what had become a crime scene. What first appeared to be a simple house fire was declared an act of arson after a responding firefighter heard a “whumph” behind him and saw the smiley face lit up on the street. It was nearly the size of two cars. He had taken a picture of it with his phone before it went out.

Sherlock squatted over it, trailed his fingers on the residue left behind and sniffed.

“Hmm, simple petrol. Unremarkable, very difficult to trace. More importantly, though, how was the perpetrator able to light it and leave without being observed? The individual remained nearby until the responders arrived and waited until they could leave the message unobserved.”

He turned to Lestrade and Charles Buchanan, the Watch Commander of the Ruislip Fire Station. Open flames were still pouring forth from the front windows and hoses were trained on the maisonette; the Brigade was trying to keep the fire from spreading throughout the neighborhood, although it seemed remarkably well contained.

“How long until we can enter the home?”

John tried to wipe a smile from his face. It was obvious to him that there was no way they could get in tonight, but he hoped that Sherlock’s impatience wouldn’t cause him to combust on the spot. Commander Buchanan shifted from foot to foot; it seemed Lestrade had warned him of the consulting detective’s potential for volatility.

“Unfortunately, it’s going to be at least until tomorrow morning, probably closer to midday.”

Sherlock put his hands up in the air and sighed while Lestrade grimaced. He tried to placate him.

“But we’ve got two of the residents over here, so you can talk to them and come back tomorrow.”

“Are there any more residents than that who live here? It’s not a large dwelling.”

“It’s a family of three, but the husband’s not here. The wife is pretty sure that he was inside the house when it went up.”

“Take me to them.”

Lestrade put a hand on his arm.

“Wait. There’s a child, a little girl. You need to be careful.”

“Aren’t I always careful?”

“You know what I mean. You upset people.”

Sherlock sneered.

“People let themselves get upset. I merely observe.”

John simply stared up at him, looking into his eyes until he huffed impatiently.

“Alright, yes, I will try not to disturb the delicate sensitivities of others. Now, can I talk to them before this becomes pointless?”

Sighing, Buchanan flagged over a tall firefighter who was attending to one of the trucks.

“Say, Davis, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. They work with Detective Inspector Lestrade, who’s over here from central for…well, it’s complicated. Would you show these two over to the family?”

Turning to the men, he explained,

“They’re staying here until the cousin gets here from Birmingham. She’s already on her way.”

John nodded at Buchanan.

“Thank you, we won’t be too long.”

Davis walked them over to the open cab of the fire truck, explaining,

“The little girl was just waiting over there on that step with a couple of other kids when her mum came running up. Her mum said she got a call from the neighbor and left her job. We’ve given ‘em some privacy here until the relative comes. Don’t really know what to tell them about the father.”

John thanked him for this preamble and the two of them paused at the open door of the truck. John held out his hand to the woman, Ellen Walker, and the girl, Kaitlyn, who was sitting rather uncomfortably on her mother’s lap. While John exchanged appropriate social pleasantries, Sherlock peered at them.

The woman was in her mid twenties – _married at a young age_ – with her hair pinned up to her head – _waitress, works at the local fish and chips shop in the evenings_ – and a maroon uniform blouse – _baggy around the arms, recent stress has caused her to lose weight._ She had pinched lines around her lips and there were no tears in her eyes – _not on good terms with the husband, she thinks he was cheating –_ but she had her arms wrapped tightly around her daughter – _overly protective now, but she’s just realizing the daughter has been behaving oddly in the last year._

The girl was about eight years old and wore jeans skinned at the knees – _likes to play outside with neighbors_ – and had short, dark hair – _neither parent has time or inclination to style hair, father has a day job with hours beginning early in the morning_ – with a specific curl to her fingers on both hands – _plays cricket with friends even though she’s not supposed to._ She was sitting uncomfortably on her mother’s lap _– does not like to be touched -_ andthe thread attached to the buttons on her blouse was off-color – _repaired by the mother later at night –_ next to her collar there were yellow bruises spaced evenly apart lower on the back of her neck – _really not good, male in position of close proximity, likely father, has been….._

Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder to interrupt his thoughts. He would return to that particular deduction in a moment, but he wanted to ask some questions first.

“Could you tell me the last time you saw your husband?”

“Like I told the detective inspector, I saw him set out this morning at five for the post office. He had just finished his beans and….”

“How long has he worked at the Royal Mail?”

“Well, he’s worked there for fifteen years, since before I knew him.”

“Tell me, did your husband have a particular routine on weeknights after he got home?”

Mrs. Walker frowned.

“Well, I work most weeknights. I think he usually just stopped off at the corner store after work to pick up a beer and a smoke and then watched telly at home. Kaitlyn, was that what your dad did?”

Sherlock noted the use of the past tense. Kaitlyn was silent for some moments. He looked at her speculatively and took a risk, speaking softly.

“Kaitlyn, did you see your father today after school?”

She shifted her legs on her mother’s lap and looked down at the ground outside. Touched the bruise on her neck where her mother couldn’t see. Looked down at the ground again and shook her head. Sherlock caught John’s eye, signaling to him to wrap up the interview. John turned to Mrs. Walker.

“Were there any enemies your husband had? Anyone who might have wished to harm him?”

“God, no, I can’t think of anyone.”

John offered her his hand once more.

“Well, I appreciate you talking with us this evening. I hope that your husband…turns up alright. We’ll be in touch with you if we need any further information. Thank you again.”

She pursed her lips and nodded tightly at them. John thanked Davis once more, and they both walked back toward Lestrade’s car where he had been waiting. They were out of earshot of the Walkers and firefighters when Sherlock spoke to John and the detective inspector.

“I’m not sure of the usual channels for this, but you’ll want to get someone to talk with the girl. Her father’s been sexually abusing her for some time now, perhaps a year.”

John exhaled sharply and passed a hand over his eyes. Lestrade looked shocked.

“Sherlock, are you sure?”

“Certain of it. She’s got bruises in the shape of fingers around her shoulders, spends as much time outside as possible, hates being touched by people, she’s been behaving oddly for nearly a year, her mother thinks her husband’s been cheating on her but he’s really been focusing his attention on his daughter. She also won’t talk about her father’s routine and was out of the house when the fire started.”

“Does that mean the daughter set the fire? Or the mother? Is the mother taking revenge for the abuse?”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

“No, but I’m beginning to think that someone is. Lestrade…for once, I’d like to take a short trip in your car. There’s something about the fire...”

* * *

The three of them used the car to circle to the street on the other side of the maisonette. The residences immediately surrounding the burning building had been vacated, so Sherlock, John and Lestrade were able to jump into the tiny garden of the residence behind 61 Verde. Sherlock spent some time observing the back of the burning home before looking to the left and right around him.

“The arsonist is a professional, very experienced. Mr. Walker was trapped inside somehow, likely immobilized before the fire was set. The fire was started inside with the precise amount of control to take down the maisonette but not catch the other buildings.”

“How do you know that?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock pointed to the rooftop beside them.

“The arsonist isn’t just a professional; he’s a pyromaniac. He wanted to watch, and the rooftop there gives a perfect vantage point. He wouldn’t be visible unless someone already knew where to look. The garden here provides coverage for him to sneak away from the back of the house and crawl up onto the roof. No cameras at this spot of the street, either. This fire was set so the perpetrator would have plenty of time to exit the house and watch as the fire spread. He could easily slip away long before the authorities arrived. And he either hid somewhere else or returned surreptitiously in order to set the message on fire. I think we’re looking for someone in law enforcement or the Fire Brigade who can pass unnoticed. Mr. Walker was chosen deliberately, yet the remainder of his family was carefully excluded. As for the rest…I want to see the inside of the house.”

John could tell that there was more he hadn’t yet disclosed; Sherlock would likely share more with him in confidence at the flat.

“I’ll meet you here as soon as the house is safe tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock sat in his black chair with his palms placed together under his chin. He’d been silent for nearly two hours and John was at his computer.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“This is going to be a serial killer.”

“Why do you think that?”

“The precision and deliberation involved. He’s done this before. Maybe not in this area, maybe not for a while, but he’s killed this way before. He also worked professionally…maybe cleaning up crime scenes. He’s good, very good. Dangerous. One of the best.”

“You think he worked for...Moriarty?”

“Or one of his affiliates. He had a lot of connections and a number of hideouts. Somehow they know something about us, enough to leave us a message. This is one of the good ones, John, ‘catch me before I kill again.’ We’ll have to see if he’s left us anything at the crime scene.”

“Well, how could he leave us anything? Won’t it have been burnt up?”

“Not necessarily. Uncharacteristic for a pyromaniac, this one. Pyromania is a compulsive disorder, not psychotic. This one has combined the stress relief of setting fires with a desire for revenge. Love is a stronger motivator...I wonder.”

“I suppose we’ll put Stravinsky on hold, then. It’s good it will run for the next month and a half.”

Sherlock uttered a neutral, “hmm,” before lapsing into silence for the remainder of the evening.

* * *

As John woke, the first thing he realized was that it was still dark. He hadn’t been dreaming this time, but he knew that his sleep had been disturbed. Within ten seconds he understood - Sherlock had just climbed in beside him. John was used to his friend’s odd habits and usually didn’t notice that he had joined him in bed until morning. Then John would leave the bed quietly as Sherlock continued to sleep well into the afternoon. The erratic schedule was their particular version of domesticity. Sherlock was mostly hands-off while John was sleeping because he could be unpredictable when dreaming. Years spent in the army had also led to John reacting somewhat negatively and impulsively to being touched while slumbering.

Tonight, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John; he had deduced that he was awake, then.

“Good even-,” John began, before a single finger was laid against his lips. John became aware of Sherlock’s lips pressed to his neck, and his warm breath ghosted against his skin. John sighed, feeling the exhalations seep hotly into his muscles. The finger at his mouth traced a line of fire from one corner of his lower lip to the other. He felt Sherlock pressed into the curve of his arse, almost fully erect.

_Mmmm_

John’s body responded intuitively, and he arched his back as the hand snaked its way down his front torso from his lips. He covered the hand with his own, linking fingers into it, silently assenting to the touch. The spidery fingers trailed downward with his own, slipping beneath the band of his pajamas to trace small circles in his pubic hair. John thrust his hips up and heard a low chuckle. He responded with a “shhh” of his own and gripped the hand, flipping over to face Sherlock. John reached one hand out tentatively and found a bare shoulder, which he clutched and used as an anchor. In the darkness, he nuzzled for his friend’s face with his own and smiled when he found his lips. He kissed him slowly, repeatedly, leaving his own mouth closed until he felt Sherlock’s lips open up beneath his own.

His mouth was delicious; lips soft and warm, teeth perfectly parted beneath them, smooth tongue. John sucked on it until his lover gasped and he pulled his own body even closer, pushing up against his chest. Sherlock tilted his hips up, grinding into John, and he moaned at the friction. John moved his hand down Sherlock’s chest and broke the silence by laughing when he discovered that he was completely naked. He refrained from commenting and instead wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock, which satisfyingly throbbed under his attention. He let out a low groan and thrust up into his fist; John felt a hand crawl up the back of his neck and one finger began tracing a vertical line up and down from his scalp to the top of his shirt collar. Sherlock’s breathing grew heavy as he responded to John’s strokes. He stilled and removed his hand, ignoring the sudden grunt of protest. John took the hand at the back of his neck and pulled it down to his waist, plucking at his own waistband. He felt Sherlock smile into his mouth and they both gradually pulled down the interfering garment in the dark, careful to avoid any clash of elbows or knees.

The two men moved their lower bodies inward again, adjusting their hips and pressing their erections together. Each heard the other gasp wordlessly at the sudden contact and heat, the pleasure as each of their shafts lined up from top to bottom. They breathed into one another’s mouths damply, lips touching but not concentrating on kisses in preference of coordinating for the inevitable. John felt the head of his lover’s cock with his own and a thrum of pleasure resounded through his body. Sherlock backed his head away and John heard him lick his palm. Sherlock then grasped them both with his right hand, wrapping long fingers on top and a thumb around; John reached out from underneath with his right hand to cover the gap left behind and caressed the other hand with his fingertips. At some unspoken signal they began to stroke together, gradually increasing their speed. There were no words and in this space no words were needed; there was only the night and the gentle song of their satisfied sighs and moans. Their breathing hastened as pleasure flared up between them and they cried out into the dark as one.


	3. Arrivée

They were allowed into the charred husk of 61 Verde shortly before noon of the next day. Portions of the back brick were still standing but the other walls of the house had succumbed to the flames. Lestrade held off his forensics crew to give Sherlock access the scene first. They had found the body of what everyone, including Sherlock and John, thought was the Mr. Walker. The corpse was burnt beyond recognition and DNA identification would be necessary; the internal organs had crumbled and all that remained was a shell.

Positioned behind the head of the corpse and halfway covered by ash and debris was a small fire safe. Sherlock got up and motioned Lestrade over.

“We’re going to open it.”

“What if it’s locked?”

“Something tells me it won’t be.”

To prove his point, Sherlock bent over the fire safe and pushed down on the lid while pulling up on the latch underneath. The safe opened. Resting inside were two small objects.

The first was a silver tie pin with a vertical clasp. Positioned at the top of the pin was a wolf’s head. Sherlock recognized it immediately.

The second object was a single bullet. John stopped breathing for a moment and froze in mid-crouch.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

His mouth hung open.

“John?”

“That’s…”

Sherlock could see that he was grappling with words to describe the second object and he reached out to steady his friend. When he touched John’s arm he finally shook his head and came back to himself.

“I don’t know who is doing this, but I think you’re right, Sherlock. This one is dangerous.”

He exhaled slowly before standing up. Looking into the distance, he nevertheless addressed Sherlock and Lestrade.

“Unless I’m mistaken – which is unlikely - that’s a bullet from a 7.62×39mm rifle cartridge. It’s used in the AK-47, otherwise known as the Kalashnikov assault rifle. Soviet-made, see? It’s one of the favorite weapons of the Afghan insurgents. That’s the same type of bullet they pulled out of my chest.”

Sherlock nodded. It was what he had expected John to say as soon as he had seen the far-away expression on his face.

“Whoever this is, they’re leaving messages for us. We’ll have to figure out just what it is they’re trying to say.”

John gestured back to the fire safe.

“What’s the pin? Is that a tie pin?”

“Yes. That’s the tie pin – or a replica – of the one Moriarty wore when he was on trial.”

* * *

The bullet and tie pin were very carefully placed in evidence bags and Sherlock was promised full rights to scrutinize them back at the Yard later that day. He continued to examine the husk of the burned house, particularly the area around the corpse. It had been placed in the center of the front room, which appeared to be a sitting room or living area.

Sherlock and John approached Davis, the lanky firefighter from the previous night, who was rolling up some hoses by the truck with the assistance of a thickset blonde woman firefighter. The woman firefighter’s nostrils flared as they drew close.

“Oh, hello, Dr. Holmes, Mr. Watson,” Davis said.

John suppressed a snicker and gently corrected the young man before the conversation took a turn for the worst. The young man continued, slightly abashed.

“Yes, of course…Dr. Watson. This is Claudia, by the way. She was off-duty last night but she’s here to help us with the clean up today.”

Claudia had a very Molly-like expression on her face and she blinked rapidly, biting her lips and almost wringing her hands. To John’s eyes, she seemed quite besotted by Davis, looking up at him adoringly and frequently with large hazel eyes. He seemed oblivious to her. Claudia greeted them politely.

“ ‘Lo, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes,” she said before returning her attention to Davis.

“Yes, hello,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Tell me, either of you...what temperature did the fire inside the house likely reach?”

Davis blinked several times and then Claudia answered for them both. She had a stilted border accent.

“That fire probably got up to 900 C.”

Davis tilted his head.

“Yeah, that’s normal for house fires. But with arson, like with this one, there’s hot spots up to 1200 C. The casserole dishes may’ve melted in there,” he said, pointing to the house.

“So is it typical for fire safes to endure temperatures like that?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, I think they’re tested in a constantly heated environment. So, yeah, they can last for quite a while. Anything else, Mr. Holmes? We’ve got to roll up and get ready for whatever’s next.”

“Yes, there was something else. Would a firefighter be able to go into a fire like that?”

Claudia let out a wry chuckle and Davis smiled.

“Only for about two minutes or less. Our suits aren’t rated for that kind of work. But I think the military has those fire proximity suits. We just do the fire containment work – keep it controlled and keep it from spreading.”

Sherlock nodded to them in dismissal.

“I shall keep that in mind.”

He walked off in the direction of the house, hands clasped behind him, with John trailing behind.

“Sherlock, tell me you’re not going to get hold of one of those suits so you can go jumping into burning buildings.”

He chuckled and John found himself laughing in turn.

“No, although I’d like to ask Mycroft for one, just to see what he says.”

* * *

There were actually three pieces of evidence inside the fire safe, one of which had not been clearly visible at the burned out house. Back at the Yard, one of the officers in forensics, Maureen Patel, pointed out that there were two strands of pale red hair wrapped delicately around the bullet. It was sent in immediately for DNA analysis. Neither Sherlock nor John felt that the hairs had been left by accident.

“What do we do now?” John asked.

“Until he strikes again, we pull records of arson to look for patterns. We’ll start with the last three years in the Greater London area.”

The pair accumulated a great deal of research but Sherlock was not able make any definite connections. He put out the word with his network that he was looking for a messenger or any bit player who had happened to do minor jobs for Moriarty’s people. He offered up amnesty as a potential bribe and hoped for information.

They waited for another six days before the next fire.

* * *

The second fire was set at a two-bedroom house in Enfield. It was even more obviously an act of arson because the house was attached to a larger dwelling; the larger structure was nearly untouched. The blaze appeared to have begun on the far side of the smaller dwelling. Sherlock and John watched the firefighters work as Lestrade finished speaking with a bystander. Approaching them, he called out,

“Boys, you’ll find this as interesting as I do. The neighbor, Mrs. Webbly, says that Nick Stratham is the bloke who rents this house. He recently got divorced from his wife and she and the kids are now living with her sister in Barnet. This guy, Stratham…he worked at the Enfield Post Office.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up.

“Someone’s after Royal Mail workers. That’s where it starts, but I think there’s more to it than that. We’ve got to get Stratham’s ex-wife down to the Yard.”

“I’ll get on it – I’ll try to have her in tomorrow morning. You should also know that the big house is empty. The occupants are on holiday in Scotland.”

Sherlock eyed the bigger house. It was only a meter or so away from the gatehouse. He pointed to the first floor window, which had an unobstructed view into the smaller house.

“The curtains have been left wide open. People on holiday would likely leave the curtains closed. I think our killer watched the victim from that spot; he would have had a good view until the smoke obscured it.” He turned to John.

“John, we’ll need to alter the parameters of our search. None of the fires in London I came across involved postal workers. We’ll need to look all through England.”

“Should we stick with the last year or go back farther?”

“Ah, good idea. Let’s go back for five years or so.”

In agreement, they hailed a cab back to Baker Street.

* * *

Sometime late that evening, long past midnight, Sherlock slammed his laptop shut, startling John, who had unintentionally fallen into a deep sleep in his chair. Ignoring John’s confusion, he picked up his bow and jabbed it toward the window.

“There’s nothing! No fire identified as arson with a postal worker fatality in England within the last five years. It’s hateful.”

“Hnf,” said John, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe they’ve moved here from somewhere else? Or maybe they just started?”

Sherlock swung the bow in a wide circle before picking up his violin. He began playing an unsettling section of “Danse Macabre.” Even though John was not aware of the work’s title the tense tones coming from the violin were all too clear, and he made a tactical retreat to the bedroom. Sherlock’s music was always lovely but this piece was not conducive to sleep, so John gently shut the door and pulled out some earplugs from the nightstand.

* * *

A tense Sherlock and somewhat less ragged John arrived at the Yard at ten o’clock the next morning. They met Lestrade and a young, female officer that John didn’t recognize.

“Gentlemen, this is Officer Wanda Mulgrew. She’s with our Child Abuse Investigation Team and she’ll be sitting in with us and Mrs. Stratham. Officer Mulgrew, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.”

They shook hands and Officer Mulgrew smiled broadly as Sherlock explained that her dog’s alopecia was likely a response to the summer’s heat. When they entered the interview room, Officer Mulgrew took a seat next to Mrs. Stratham.

“Hello,” said John, offering Mrs. Stratham his hand. She nodded a greeting and shook before turning to Sherlock, who, instead of introducing himself, began with,

“You filed for divorce six months ago because you felt the two of you were no longer communicating and he was losing patience with the children’s night terrors, but a short time ago one of your children, probably your son, came back from a visit with his father and told you about the way he was touching...”

She stood up in fury, snarling,

“Just who in the hell are you? I never told anyone about the nightmares!”

John stepped in, sensing an opening in her anger.

“This is Sherlock Holmes, a private detective, and he’s interested in hearing what you have to say about your ex-husband.”

“Well, the first thing I’ll say is that I didn’t kill that bastard or set him on fire, but whoever did should earn a bloody medal.”

Lestrade intervened.

“Mrs. Stra-“

“No, Ms. MacArthur,” she spat out rapidly.

He tried again.

“Ms. MacArthur, you’re not currently a suspect in our investigation. We know you’re a registered nurse at Elizabeth Lodge Retirement Home and you were on-duty from 5:00 pm onward, long before the fire was set. Our CAIT team had already begun their investigation of your ex-husband. Mr. Holmes is here trying to find the arsonist, and he needs to ask you a few questions.”

She sat down, clutching at her handbag. John felt sympathy for her; there were bare patches on her scalp near her temples and she had deep bags under her eyes. If what Sherlock said was true – and it usually was – she and her family were going through hell.

“I’ll answer your questions,” she breathed out, staring down into her lap.

Sherlock took a seat across from her, placing one hand on top of the other.

“Has your other child spoken with you about it?”

“Mindy? No...but she doesn’t ever leave Tim’s side. If he goes to the loo, she sits outside the door until he comes out. She’s protecting him, but she hasn’t said anything, even when I tried to ask. The investigators said that they would have counselors to talk with both of the children.”

Lestrade nodded and Officer Mulgrew offered reassurances.

“There’s a number of social resources, too – Action for Children has family counseling.”

Sherlock continued.

“I want to ask you about your ex-husband’s routine. After he finished his route, what did he do on weekdays?”

“He was with Tim’s rugby team on Wednesday nights, then on Thursdays he would go to the pub with his colleagues. Otherwise, I think he mostly stayed home.”

“Did your ex-husband have any new friends?”

“Not that I know of...but we really started growing apart about two years ago. It…”

She started crying, her chest hitching up.

“It was around when Mindy turned nine. She looked so grown-up, he always said...I hope he was awake when he burned, I hope he didn’t breathe in any smoke. Did he? Do you know if it hurt?”

Lestrade gestured to the two men that they were reaching the end of the interview.

“Ms. MacArthur, we don’t have those details. Is there anything else you’d like to share with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?”

“No, I think I’ve said everything.”

The two men thanked her as discreetly as possible and went to wait in the corridor. They still needed to go back to the scene with Lestrade and find the second fire safe.

* * *

They discovered it in one of the bedrooms where the fire began, placed neatly above the head of what was widely presumed to be Nick Stratham. It was unlocked, just like the one from Verde Street.

There were two objects inside. John and Sherlock recognized both of them instantly. The first item almost took up the whole length of the fire safe. It was the detached scope of an Arctic Warfare Covert, the type of sniper rifle preferred by one Sebastian Moran. A grim expression settled over both of their faces. Neutralizing Moriarty’s second-in-command had taken nearly a year, and for most of it John had still been under the impression that Sherlock was dead.

The second item was a peg from a violin, most probably a Stradivarius. Wrapped around the base of the peg were two red hairs.


	4. Khorovode

The two of them were back at Baker Street, and Sherlock had arranged himself on the sofa in repose, thinking. John sat at his chair, surveying his notebook. He was reviewing a list of facts about the case thus far – the arsonist was targeting male sexually abusive Royal Mail workers and had some connections with Moriarty’s organization. Sherlock jumped off the sofa and turned to John.

“Our arsonist has clearly worked for Moriarty, perhaps even with him. He’s got the connections to keep tabs on more than one target throughout London, so there’s information sources he’s exploiting. Because he’s investigating acts of malice – the sexual abuse – it’s easier to get sources to condone that sort of reconnaissance. Must have been rather high up in the hierarchy to have achieved the finances necessary for his personal vendetta. He’s able to gain access to Fire Brigade stations. He’s been sexually abused by a parent or close relative, a Royal Mail worker. The red hair left on the artifacts indicates the deep personal motivation. There may be some significance that the hair is only left on the trinkets representing you and I. I wonder...we’ll need to expand our search to acts of arson in the last fifteen years. It’s highly likely he’s committed patricide by now. But I think we can narrow our scope. We’ll have to do some legwork. I’ve got to speak with one of my contacts.”

John presumed that he meant one of his homeless network and said as much.

“Yes, although the title doesn’t necessarily apply right now. He _used_ to be homeless. We’re going to go hunt down Seggy. He’s a bit of an eccentric but he knows people.”

With that, Sherlock turned and walked up the stairs to the space where John used to sleep.

“Sherlock, where are you going?”

“Attic. Seggy has certain tastes.”

All John could think of was that _Sherlock_ had said he was eccentric.

* * *

As the taxi headed into a suburban area of West London, John wondered once again what they were doing. He and Sherlock had bundled the bulky components of an Apple II computer (“found it in a skip, John, it still works, I’ve checked”) into the boot of the cab. John was even more bewildered when they stopped, wrestled bits of the machine out and walked for three blocks to an innocuous-looking brick home. Sherlock bypassed the house completely and headed for the garden wall. He placed the monitor down and hoisted himself over the wall, then asked for the computer parts one at a time. When they were in the garden together, Sherlock pointed to the shed backed up against the house and began explaining in a low voice.

“Seggy lives here because it provides him a sense of living off the grid. He does have a certain need for anonymity, but he needs the Internet connection. He’s a bit of a retrocomputing fanatic, hence the bribe. Be aware, though, that he’s a former mescaline addict, so he might start talking about how the corners of his triangles have become blunted.”

They approached the shed and Sherlock opened the door without knocking. John was a little surprised at his casual invasion, but the man with his back to the door greeted him without turning around.

“Sherlock, it’s been too long. Glad you could stop by.”

“And thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice. My partner, Dr. John Watson, has come with me. I’ve also brought something to make this worth your while.”

“Greetings, Dr. Watson.”

John eyed the small man in front of him as he finally turned around. He was shorter even than John, with the podgy appearance of someone whose diet consisted solely of crisps and Red Bull. He had an unhealthy, indoors pallor and large, watery eyes, but he seemed amiable enough. He warmed as he saw the computer and a positively lustful expression came into his eyes as he held out trembling hands. John began to understand how Sherlock could describe him as eccentric.

“Oh, from 1977. Yes, it’s been far too long, my darling...”

John wanted to laugh at the seductive tone in the man’s voice, but held back. Sherlock carried on, business-like, placing the monitor on the floor away from Seggy’s grasping hands. Sherlock cleared his throat, interrupting the man’s reverie.

“I’m looking for affiliates, however minor, of Moriarty. I know you have a wide association...from the past.”

The bizarre technophile sat silent for some moments.

“Ah, well, you’d know all about the past, Sherlock. You were mighty to behold - faster than a Milky-Way 3 when you were coked up – you could see past, present and future all at once through that subtle tinny curtain. I’d loved to have had a glimpse at your circuitry, all gold and orange sparkle. But why would you think I know someone?”

“Your associates tend to work both sides of the fence, just because of the access to information. It’s not so much a lack of scruples as an inability to acknowledge that there exist such a thing as _sides_.”

Seggy let out a wry laugh.

“They’re right. There aren’t any sides. It’s a conduit for energy, back and forth, indigo-colored and chiming like a siren.”

Sherlock smiled enigmatically and waited, tapping the computer monitor gently with his foot. Seggy clapped his hands suddenly.

“The man you’re looking for is Devon. He’s currently holed up in a grotty flat next to Pimlico station. I think he and his associate both did business with Moriarty’s people. He’s a programmer, got a bit of a gambling problem.”

Seggy rattled off the address for them, and Sherlock nodded for John to hand over the hard drive to him. John couldn’t help but feel alarmed at how an orgiastic shudder came over the man as he received the offering.

“Segment, I appreciate the time. John and I will be going now.”

“Not a problem - I like the gift. Let me know if you have any more. The smell is exotic, like the shiny purple of a peacock’s feather. For old time’s sake, Sherlock.”

They nodded at each other, and Sherlock and John exited the shed, heading for an inconspicuous spot some blocks away to hail a cab.

* * *

“That had to be one of the maddest conversations I’ve ever participated in.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“And you actually signed up with the Army for six years in person. I’m surprised at you, John.”

They smiled at each other.

“Because you’re wondering, I head-butted a young dealer he had run awry of. Somehow the dealer also had an unfortunate tumble off a bridge and had an amazing change of heart regarding his profession shortly thereafter.”

“Well, I’m not a bit surprised. That melon of yours is dangerous.”

“You’ve got your gun?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not expecting violence but we might need to be persuasive.”

“Well, as long as the dull, grey mechanism of my neural net prevails, I think we’ll be fine.”

Sherlock snorted and laughed at him, then reached over to touch his fingers gently.

* * *

The block of flats was as grim as John had anticipated. As he and Sherlock passed through the corridors, he noted that many of the lights had gone and that refuse was piled into the corners. They paused at the unit that Seggy had referenced. John kept his hand at his back waistband, ready for anything. Sherlock rapped his knuckles against the door.

There was no answer. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who laid a finger against his lips. He pointed at the door lock; apparently there was an indication that the residents were actually there. John nodded back at him and pulled his gun out – he knew what they were about to do was technically illegal but collaboration with any of Moriarty’s people crossed the border into immorality, and the arsonist had already made this personal. John was willing to toe the line for the sake of Sherlock’s safety. Sherlock kicked the door in without any further preamble and they ducked behind the doorframe.

“Wait, wait, stop…who are you? Please…I’m unarmed!” came a panicked voice from what sounded like the inside corner.

“Come over to the door and put your hands on your head!” John commanded.

The man complied, emerging from the dimly lit room. He appeared to be in his late thirties and was completely bald. He was shaking, but when he caught sight of Sherlock he froze.

“Oh...I know you. Why are you here? Who told you where to find me?”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock stated quietly. “I want information, Devon, then I’ll leave you in peace. You can’t help _him_ anymore, and unless you’re currently working on the wrong side of the law – which does not currently appear to be the case, and I should know – I’ve got no interest in your doings.”

The man had linked his fingers on top of his head and Sherlock frisked him. John kept the Sig raised until Sherlock confirmed that he was unarmed. He lowered the weapon and jerked his head toward the flat.

“Back inside, then you can tell us what you know.”

Devon swallowed hard and ducked back into the flat. He flipped on the room light, bathing the tiny room in a fluorescent haze. John kept the Sig at the ready as the man took a seat at a table. He briefly surveyed the rest of the room. There was an impressively sleek computer console in the opposing corner, but the rest of the flat was in an appalling state. The tiled roof above the man was hopelessly water-stained and a tarp was actually tacked onto the ceiling above the computer. A groan rolled forth from what John surmised was the other room and Sherlock’s eyes darted to the door to their left. A broken expression crossed Devon’s weathered face and he closed his eyes, wincing.

“Please, just leave. You...he needs quiet…”

“I presume that’s your associate in the bedroom?”

He nodded slowly.

“Michael,” he whispered. Gathering some strength, he spread his hands in the air.

“I’ll talk, but I don’t know if it will help. Just leave Michael out of this.”

Sherlock met John’s eyes and he crooked his head slightly.

“Just keep your hands up on the table,” John directed him.

Devon complied and John placed the safety back on and gradually lowered the weapon. He loosened his stance somewhat but remained alert. Sherlock pulled a stool out from beneath the tiny table and took a seat.

“We’re looking for the identity of the arsonist who worked for Moriarty, cleaning up and participating in his for-hire crimes. A lot of insurance scams, probably. He likely knew Moriarty and Moran in person, so someone pretty high up.”

Devon shook his head resignedly.

“One of Moran’s people came to me, four years ago. I never knew his name, and I didn’t ask, but he told me who he worked for. He gave me a mobile and wanted some special features built in. It was easy work. I was just getting by and….well, I needed the money.” Sherlock stared at him.

“He let slip who it was for, didn’t he?” The man sighed and mumbled a name.

“Louder,” said Sherlock.

“Lu, it was Lu!” he said, desperately.

A distant expression settled over Sherlock’s face, and John suspected that he was already calculating possible spellings and combinations. It was almost certainly a code name of some sort. His musing was interrupted by agonized yelling from the bedroom.

“No, Dad, no, it hurts, I can’t stand it!”

Devon flinched and growled at Sherlock.

“Now look what you’ve done! You woke him up...goddammit.”

John was surprised to see tears starting in the man’s eyes. He interrupted, saying the first thing that came to mind.

“What’s wrong with him? Does he need medical attention?”

Putting his hands over his face, Devon brokenly muttered, “You can’t help, no one can.”

John reached a decision. He tapped Sherlock on the arm and handed him the Sig, keeping it angled downward. The detective knew that John still had his boot knife hidden away, but he adopted a more aggressive posture nevertheless. John spoke to Devon again.

“Please show me your associate. I’m a doctor.”

Devon sniffed.

“I know who you are, but it doesn’t matter. Just please…”

John crossed his arms, waiting patiently, and finally the man got up, preceding him into the bedroom. Sherlock raised the weapon carefully. The bedroom was tiny, John saw, and it contained only a mattress on the floor and a cot underneath a window. On the mattress, covered by just a sheet, was a dark-haired man in his early twenties – almost a boy. John noted that he was too thin and he twitched constantly, eyes closed; he was covered in sweat. His suspicions were confirmed when he raised the sheet and saw tell tale puncture marks along his upper forearms. Devon crouched on the other side of him, placing his hand gently on his forehead. Clean towels and flannels were piled beside the mattress, and an empty bucket lay beside the cot. A water jug was placed strategically away from the linens. Sherlock, from his place over by the door, said,

“He’s quite determined. How long has it been?”

“Three days now,” Devon whispered. As if in response to Devon’s voice, Michael’s eyes fluttered open.

“Dad...Dad...”

“I’m here, lad,” he said, gripping the young man’s hand.

John’s brow furrowed. He was pretty sure that Devon was too young to have a son Michael’s age. Devon glared at him over the young man’s body. John ignored him and conducted an assessment of his health. For a young man in the throes of a heroin withdrawal (and John had seen a few of those during his residency) he had a resiliency to him. Devon was clearly devoted to his care and was keeping him clean, hydrated and stable. The loo was within a few paces of the mattress. There was little John could do to help him, and he said as much to Sherlock. Only time would help the young man recover, but he would face the battle with addiction for the rest of his life. Michael broke the silence.

“It’s not Lu. Not Lu.”

Sherlock spoke directly to the young man.

“If it’s not Lu, then who is it?”

“After I delivered the tablet to one of his people, Moriarty called to thank me…”

Devon looked shocked and dropped his hand. Clearly Devon hadn’t known that Michael had any direct dealings with the consulting criminal.

“...and he said it was, ‘perfect for Lui.’”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open.

“Oh...oh! Say that again!”

“‘perfect for Lui.’”

“Yes, yes, of course...two reasons I haven’t been looking in the right place…oh, yes! How did I not see?”

Sherlock was ecstatic and only the small space was preventing him from jumping triumphantly. He beckoned John over to him.

“We’re almost done here. I only need a few more words with Michael.”

He gave the Sig back to John and went to crouch beside Michael. Catching John quite off guard, he placed his head down next to the young man’s ear, and John couldn’t catch what he said to him first. Gradually, though, he heard a series of numbers go on for quite a while,

“….. **0111001001100101011100110110010101110100**.”

Sherlock paused, hesitating above the young man’s face. Finally, Michael let out a laugh. It was a joyful sound and a look of startled relief came over Devon’s face. Sherlock smiled back manically at John, warming his insides, and he got up, dusting off his hands. The two men left the room and Devon crept out after them. He looked down, composing myself and wiping his face. He had relaxed his posture for the first time since they had entered the flat. A look of casual boredom settled across Sherlock’s face, but John noticed that he made no sudden move to exit the flat. Devon looked at him in gratitude.

“I don’t know what you said to him, but...thank you. He’s really been my son since I found him a couple of years ago, tinkering with the computers in the library. He was homeless, then, but he had managed to transfer all the fines they were owed from the patrons’ to the PM’s account in less than thirty minutes. It took them over a week to sort that out. Just a prank, but of course he attracted the attention of the big players. We’ve been legit since Moran bit it but Michael has been losing his...flair. He sold the last of his equipment – and he loved that machine - several weeks ago. He asked me for a loan and I said no. He lost his temper and was gone for over three days. When he came back, he looked...broken. He was beaten up, blood all over, clothes ripped, hadn’t showered or changed at all; I don’t know if he’d even eaten. I don’t want to think about what he might’ve done to get a fix.”

John swallowed hard. He could make a guess based on the description but didn’t think it was something he would ever voice to anyone.

“He told me he was done. Begged me to help him, not let him leave the flat again. Called me dad…it was like that was all he had left.” Devon walked over to the table again, almost collapsing.

“I’ll see him through this and after. Michael’s a brilliant programmer. He still is. He can make it...right?”

The doctor wanted to tell him that it would work out, but there were a lot of uncertainties when dealing with such a powerful addiction. He settled on cautious optimism.

“There’s no guarantees, but it sounds like he’s made up his mind. Cold turkey is far from easy.”

Sherlock pulled out a business card and pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled some information on it before handing it to Devon.

“If it becomes worse…call this number. There’ll be an arrangement in place. But be aware that it won’t work if he’s not willing.”

Devon’s mouth fell open.

“Why…would you do this, Holmes? We’ve worked on the other side.”

Sherlock waved a hand in the air.

“Don’t be tedious. It’s purely selfish. Michael shows promise. I might want to draw upon his resources in the future. It creates an obligation.”

John wiped a hand over his face to cover a smile. Sherlock was already walking toward the exit, pulling out his phone and texting. John shrugged at Devon, and nodded toward the bedroom door.

“Well done on his care so far, but get help if he becomes combative. It could happen. He may get worse before he improves, and it’s going to be uncertain for a couple of days. Make sure that he gets enough to eat. We’ll see ourselves out, then. Er…thanks.”

So saying, he backed carefully out of the flat, finally lowering the Sig completely and nodding to the man. He remained at the table, hands outstretched. He shut the door and backed into the hallway, where Sherlock was waiting. Sherlock turned his back to him and John continued facing the flat; they carried on back-to-back down the hallway until they reached the staircase, when they broke apart at last and trotted down to the street.

* * *

“Private clinic, since you’re wondering. Unbearably dull.”

John was used to Sherlock’s unusual form of conversation without preambles or transitions.

“What did you tell him? The numbers…was that…was that binary code?” His friend smiled broadly at him.

“Well done, John, you’re catching on better each day.”

“I’m not totally an idiot, then?” John asked, a corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Not totally,” John chuckled. Sherlock looked out the window of the cab, at the glow over his city.

“I told him that the craving never goes totally away. But I said that there were…trade-offs. I told him to consider this temporary inconvenience…a system **reset**.”

This time, John stretched out his hand and placed it over his friend’s knee. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but John could feel him relax into his touch.


	5. Dialogue

It was sometime after midnight, but John had just begun a two-week holiday from the surgery. It took almost no time at all for him to adjust to Sherlock Standard Time. The two of them had put on some coffee and began to discuss new search parameters in locating the arsonist. Sherlock opened the discussion.

“We were looking for the wrong person, John. I went by statistics...80% of all arsonists are males and the numbers reflect something similar for pyromaniacs.”  
  
“How do you know it’s a woman, though?”  
  
“It’s in the use of the code names. The name also tells us where the arsonist is from. Lugh is the name of an Irish god, it means something like ‘flashing light.’ He’s incorrectly considered something of an Apollo equivalent by historians. But Moran got it wrong when he said the name – he was no Irishman. Moriarty gave her the name or she called herself that. He even used a nickname sometimes, and Michael heard the nickname correctly. Her name is Luiseach, Lui for short – it’s the feminine of Lugh. I’d imagine that Moriarty actually met her when he was just getting started on his Dublin to Belfast connection and he capitalized on her talents.”

“Amazing!”

Sherlock smiled to himself radiantly, completely in his element.

“What else makes you think that the arsonist is a woman?” John asked.

He steepled his fingers and squatted on the couch

“There’s the matter of the hair…there’s a reason she’s leaving it behind. Her targeting of Royal Mail workers is personal. I’m convinced she’s a victim of paternal abuse.”

“Do you think she’s a ginger?”

Sherlock snorted.

“ ‘Ginger,’ John, really. No, I don’t think she is red-haired. That would be too…trite. But I think there’s a definite link between her and whoever the red hair belongs to.”

John opened up his browser.

“So we look for fires in the…what? Last twenty years? In Ireland?”

“No, just in the UK. I think our killer is actually from North Ireland. Remember, Royal Mail. There’s no Royal Mail in the Republic.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Let’s see if we can get all the way to the root of the problem, maybe to her first crime. Two artifacts per crime scene…two hairs for each of our representations…our killer likes to think in twos… We’ll look for two victims…two victims for two abusers? Probably not a traditional parenting situation, but let’s not be exclusive…”

They continued searching into the night. Sherlock was still pounding the keys of his laptop when John admitted fatigue. Before he tottered off into the shower, he poured a fresh cup of coffee for Sherlock and placed some biscuits on a saucer. The glow from the laptop was the only light left in the sitting room, and it cast a blue haze over Sherlock as he scrolled through data with one hand.

* * *

John tumbled out of bed and determined that it was late in the morning from the way the light filtered through the room. He looked at his phone on the nightstand to confirm the time – 10:12 am – and ran into the sitting room. Any fears that he had been left behind were quelled at once by the sight of Sherlock jerking his head up from the table, clearly startled out of some stage of a sleep cycle. John noted that the biscuits from last night had been consumed and he wandered into the kitchen to fill the kettle.

“Just ruminating over some data,” Sherlock commented after clearing his throat.

John grunted. He was prepared to feign belief in almost any sort of nonsensical explanation as long as the detective adhered to Watson minimum standards for transport functionality. A few hours of sleep within two days and some fatty biscuits was far better treatment than Sherlock’s body had received in times past. John began assembling all the ingredients for a fry-up that could be eaten by hand.

After emerging from the shower fully dressed, Sherlock alternately paced and loomed over John’s chair to steal sausages, toast and bacon as he listed the circumstances of the top two suspected initial arsons currently on a list of ten. John briefly wondered if Sherlock was aware that he regularly doubled the servings on his plate just to facilitate his petty larceny. 

“Bill Forbes and his wife Jackie were killed when their car caught fire under slightly mysterious circumstances fifteen miles out of Stirling in 1994. They had three children that survived – Bill Jr., age 21 at Uni, Mary, age 18 and Duncan, age 12.  Bill Forbes Sr. was a supervisor at the main branch of the Royal Mail in Stirling. The records on Mary go blank after she turned 20 – no news on deaths or marriage. It’s not clear if she died or simply disappeared. It seems more than coincidence.”

“Hmm, that one sounds promising. What’s the other?”

“Eugene Lindsay, his son Evan, 20 and his granddaughter – name not listed, 4 months old. They killed when their house at the outskirts of town burned down in 1992. Eugene worked at the Royal Mail office in Ballyclare, North Ireland. There was a daughter, Katherine, aged 13, who wasn’t identified in the remains. Because of the technology at the time and the heat of fire, she may have been overlooked. That’s also a young age for a pyromaniac to incinerate an entire house. There are eight other possibilities, but those first two are the most likely. I think whoever our pyromaniac is, she’s becoming more unbalanced. Setting fires is a way for her to exert control over her circumstances – it’s possible that with the lack of regular opportunities provided through Moriarty’s network she’s becoming overwhelmed with repressed emotions. Like many serial killers, she likely wants help but lacks the understanding of how to seek it – if she ever had that to begin with. I believe she wants to communicate with us. This feels like a game she wants to lose.”

“What’s next?”

“We’ll need to get a list of workers and volunteers from the Edmonton and Ruislip fire stations – see if you can get duty rosters. Both chiefs have been notified by Lestrade that we’re on the case, so they shouldn’t give you a problem. I’d like to go over these reports again, then go back to the Yard to examine the hair samples more closely. I want to look at all four of the follicles.”

“Not a problem. Shall I meet you at the Yard?” This was said from the bedroom, where John was already tying up a pair of boots.

Sherlock smirked in his general direction and surreptitiously snatched a cigarette from the breadbox; he tucked it and a book of matches into his jacket pocket.

“Yes, but text me first. I might’ve left by the time you’re done.”

As John headed out the door, still buttoning his shirt, Sherlock shouted at him.

“Laters!”

“Take care, Sherlock,” John replied quietly, standing absolutely still for five seconds, before bounding down the rest of the stairs.

Sherlock heard him. He always did.

* * *

Watch Commander Buchanan at the Ruislip Fire Station remembered John from the Verde Street fire. He was accommodating and polite, and handed John a thick, coffee-stained duty log with instructions to return it at his earliest convenience. _  
_

_12:36 pm_

_I’ll be able to meet you pretty soon with the info. I’m almost in Enfield. Are you at the Yard?_   **JW**

_12:43_

_Still researching at the flat._ **SH**

When John reached the Edmonton Station he entered through the garage and paused at the small corner office. It was emptier than the Ruislip Station, and he surmised that many of the firefighters were out on a call. The person who got up to greet him from the desk looked familiar, and he realized that it was the firefighter who had very much reminded him of Molly.

“Oh, hello, again – I’m here to see the officer in charge, please. Detective Inspector Lestrade will have spoken with him.”

She looked terrified to see him and he wondered how he might have offended her. He carried on nevertheless, reintroducing himself and asking to speak with the chief or commander on duty. After several attempts, she mumbled and pointed him upstairs through a break room and into the small office of the chief. The chief wasn’t exactly happy to see him but was mollified by Lestrade’s name. He spent a considerable amount of time organizing the pages of the log and making copies, which John felt boded ill for the authenticity of the data. After nearly thirty minutes of waiting, John left the office with some sort of documentation and he was filled with a sense of relief that Sherlock had not accompanied him on this fact-finding venture.

He walked back through the almost-deserted break room (one young firefighter was curled up on the tatty sofa, snoring peacefully) and passed a desperately cheerful bulletin board with a rather impressive map of London/Southeast England. John passed through the doorway and then stopped. It occurred to him that a map including the counties south all the way to the Channel was rather an odd thing to have in a North London fire station, and he returned to the bulletin board. The map took up less than a quarter of the board but was tacked on with the same kinds of pushpins that held the colourful fliers and thank-you cards. John looked more closely – working with Sherlock encouraged curiosity –and his eyes widened as he noticed the locations of the pushpins. A red pushpin was tacked in a spot over a spot in Northwood. Another red pushpin was positioned over Enfield. There was a third red pushpin shoved into a spot in Romford, with a string tied around it. The string hung directly due south into another green pushpin, somewhere in East Sussex. John couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Something so obvious…was this how Sherlock felt all the time?

He took three pictures and sent them on to Sherlock as fast as he could.

_1:07pm_

_Is this what I think it is? **JW**_

_1:08pm_

_Yes. Where are you now? **SH**_

John clutched his phone to his side and began walking briskly downstairs, planning to respond once he was ensconced in a cab. Looking to his right, he noted the firefighters pole and wondered briefly how it might feel to slide down it. Putting the thought from his head, he turned as he reached the bottom of the stairs and palmed the phone open again. He never looked behind him, which is why he didn’t notice the fire extinguisher that slammed hard into the back of his skull and the subsequent darkness.

* * *

1:18pm

 _Have you left the station?_ **SH**

1:30pm

 _We’re going to have to coordinate._ **SH**

Sherlock checked his phone one more time after sending this last text and knew that he had calculated correctly the first time. It had only been twenty-three minutes since John’s last message but his patience was at an end. He had just sent the code – true, it was early – but John still had not replied. The two of them had agreed upon a protocol for just this type of situation. On cases and _only_ on cases the GPS locater could be used after they followed a series of steps. If the first person was unresponsive by phone for thirty minutes, the other person sent them a pre-determined code. If there was no communication back within five minutes, they could then go ahead and track the location of the phone. Sherlock had actually sent the code ahead early, but the new evidence combined with John’s silence urged him to renege on the agreement. He would deal with the consequences later. He immediately logged into the email account tied to their phones and turned the GPS locater on.  In less than a minute, it bounced back John’s position.

The blip showed him at the Edmonton fire station. After pulling up the phone number, Sherlock dialed the station directly. He bullied the operator on the other end of the phone until he got the chief. After he hung up the phone, he fought against a harsh, boiling sensation rising into his esophagus.

John had left the chief’s office over forty minutes ago.

_Merde._

* * *

Sherlock darted into their room and groaned when he saw that the Sig was still on the dresser. He located a clip, ensured the safety was on and then tucked it in his back waistband, John-style.

“Mrs. Hudson!"

Silence.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Goodness, Sherlock, what is it?” came a gentle voice from downstairs.

“Mrs. Hudson, I need to get John. Do Mrs. Turner’s tenants still have that car in the corner garage?”

“Well, yes, dear, but I think they’re on holiday in Italy.”

“Oh. Really? Can you come with me to visit Mrs. Turner?”

* * *

Twenty minutes later a silver Vauxhall Astra sped over the Thames, headed toward the southbound A23. Sherlock had been to Sussex many times before and he knew the way. And when he came back home to London, John would be with him.


	6. Danse Infernale et Supplications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth is a torch, but a tremendous one. That is why we hurry past it, shielding our eyes, indeed, in fear of getting burned.
> 
> \- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Sherlock’s phone confirmed that the most common route to Berwick from London was the A23 down to the A27 and this was the one he was currently travelling.  He had been on the road now for over an hour, speeding when he was sure he could get away with it, glaring contemptuously at picturesque villages and scrutinizing every car he encountered down to the last detail. He had not received any communication from Luiseach; her silence was different from Moriarty or Moran’s taunting. He thought at first that she had taken John as a hostage to lure him in but now he wasn’t certain. In his mind palace, Sherlock slammed the door shut to the wing that housed All Things John. It wouldn’t do at all for him to take comfort in John’s company now, so he locked the door and slid several bars over it to keep his sentiment in place. He was distressed to find, though, that John wasn’t sentiment at all. John was a condition necessary for life. The foundations of the palace trembled; the masonry began to crack. Sherlock could not quell his rebellious mind and as disorder swept through it like a conflagration, he struggled to keep himself from melting under the heat.

He kept up the battle within his mind as he passed Lewes, then the Firles, then Compton Wood, all of them. As he sped by Tilton Wood he noticed a red and yellow Fire Brigade car tucked just on the other side of a low hill. It had driven directly into the wheat fields and any casual motorist might have overlooked it. The fact that Luiseach had stolen away in a Fire Brigade vehicle indicated that she was in a volatile state of mind, quite literally coming apart under the own weight of her memories. Sherlock needed to find John as quickly as possible. He pulled the Astra into the field using the tracks from the other vehicle and jumped out of the car. He took out the Sig and surveyed the area around the car, seeing nobody. The car was empty but as he looked in the back window he saw three blond hairs trapped in a seam between seat cushions. He lifted the safety from the Sig and he felt his heart race. She would burn for this.

_3:34pm_

_At Tilton Wood, East Sussex, in pursuit of arsonist and John._ **SH**

_3:39pm_

_That’s out of my jurisdiction. I’m calling Mycroft._ **L**

As he looked forward over the nose of the car, he noticed several bent stalks in the wheat. The crop was nearly a meter tall and almost ready to be sown, but Sherlock focused on what appeared to be a drag trail through the sea of gold. He walked quickly into the recess, holding out the weapon in front of him. As he moved farther away from the car he ran, and the path took him closer to the wood itself. A finger of growth trailed out from the forest, curving around Sherlock’s left side.  The wheat grew somewhat shorter here and he suddenly saw a space pressed out by a blanket on the ground, shadowed slightly by the copse. Sprawled and motionless on the blanket was John’s body.

* * *

In his whole life he had never known what it was like to be completely blank. But there was no other explanation for the sudden absence of everything. All he could feel was an empty command prompt screen. No codes could be summoned. The brain had performed an illegal operation and was in danger of being shut down. His body must have been propelling itself forward, lifting each foot, because somehow John became larger in his vision. Messages must have been transmitting somewhere, because visual images were trying to assemble into meaningful data.

He crashed to his knees beside John’s body and saw a single hand reach out – it must have been his own – to touch an immobile blonde head. A sensation at last. His heart had stopped beating. That was the only reason for the overwhelming pressure trying to explode outward from behind his ribs.

John’s chest rose up and down gently.

C:/>runas /user:_SHERLOCKHOLMES_

C:/ drwatson.exe

DETECTING…

Testing extended memory…done.

His system soared back online, neurons singing in harmony with one another, and he immediately began an assessment of John’s injuries. He had sustained some blunt-force trauma to the back of his head and was unconscious. But there was no damage to the rest of his body, and it occurred to Sherlock that he should check to see if John still had his knife tucked into his boot. It was a good idea and he moved to follow through on it, but Sherlock unexpectedly and temporarily found John’s knife when it was driven into his upper arm from behind.

Pain surged through his body, sparkling through his receptors. He stood up to pursue the assailant with the Sig now in his left hand, trying to ignore the sudden throb of agony from his arm.

“Ah, ah, ah, Mr. Holmes, I wouldn’t shoot if I were you.”

The teasing voice spoke in a musical Irish lilt. The woman who had run to stand five meters in front of him had long, golden hair that streamed out in the wind beside her and a twisted smile. She held John’s bloody boot knife triumphantly in one hand and a lit cigarette lighter in the other. It was Luiseach.

* * *

“Tell me why I won’t shoot you...Katherine. Or do you prefer Claudia…or Luiseach?”

“Oh, that’s good, Mr. Holmes, very good. You are clever. I hoped you’d come find me sometime. There’s such a lot we have to talk about.”

“I don’t think so. We’ll be taking our leave and you’ll be going to prison.” He kept the Sig pointed at her but he wasn’t confident that he could aim well with his left hand.

She laughed at him, throwing her head back in the wind. She twiddled the hand holding the lighter and Sherlock noted that she was also holding a length of twine that stretched out behind her. The wound in his arm was throbbing; she had twisted the knife before wrenching it out. He was still standing, so at least she hadn’t gone in deep enough to slice an artery. She had done just enough to unbalance him.

“No, I think not. This line of accelerant behind me and the dry summer crop says you’ll be staying for a while yet. This is where the chaff gets separated from the wheat, Mr. Holmes. This is why I stopped here…it’s perfect for it. I was just about to get started. It was nice of you to show up. Although I thought I’d already winnowed _him_ out…thought that was done with.”

A lost look came over her face as she looked down at John. Her lip twitched upward and Sherlock realized that she was both present in the field with him and locked in her memory.

“Why did you bring him here?” he gestured over at John to clarify.

“Oh, well, he has to burn here. This can be the last time, here in this field. I did it before, but I can’t help it that he followed me to London. He’d followed me other places, too. He followed me everywhere, they both did.”

Sherlock scrunched his face, thinking quickly. He was almost following her convoluted logic.

“Who has to burn, Luiseach?”

Her lips moved but no words came forth. He decided to try a different tactic.

“Why did you want to talk with me?”

Her eyes focused back on him and she was pulled out of whatever time she was currently occupying. 

“I wanted you…to observe. That’s what you’re good at. Moriarty said you were, and he knew most things by looking. But even he didn’t know _everything_.”

And suddenly all the reactants in the equation balanced out for him, leading to a product that made sense. The two clues at each fire, the Postal workers, the three people killed in the very first fire and the red hairs. He knew what she wanted, what she had needed all these years. What Moriarty and Moran had overlooked and what they never been able to give her. Peace.

“Luiseach. You were born as Katherine in Ballyclare in 1979 with one older brother, Evan. He was seven when you were born. Your father was Eugene and he worked at the Royal Post. Mary was your mother but she died in 1986 from leukemia. It started very soon after that, didn’t it?”

She smiled at him beatifically and held the lighter underneath the knife, remaining silent.

“But it wasn’t just your father. Your brother idolized your father. He was only thirteen when he found your father on you…and your father showed him what to do next.”

She scoffed at him. 

“Anyone could have figured that out, just from records. Moriarty saw that the first time he met me.”

Sherlock nodded. He could feel his own blood trickling down his palm.

“You found out how comforting the fire could be…how the crackle drove out the screams in your own head. They took the matches away, but you just got smarter and more subtle…and better.”

“No one’s better than me,” she said with an air of pride.

“You got so good that you were able to take out the two of them and bring down the whole house at thirteen. Barely a teenager…”

She sighed.

“You disappoint me, Mr. Holmes. I thought you were something special.” The lighter had gone out, and she flicked it back into life again. He stared at her, unflinching, as she moved it closer to the string. 

“Luiseach, what happened to your little fire?”

All the blood drained from her face and she slammed the lighter shut.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. What happened to her?’”

Tears welled up in her eyes and started rolling down her cheeks.

“I...I can’t…”

“Then let me tell you. They killed her. They killed your child, their child. She was either your brother’s or your father’s daughter, but they never really cared which. Oh, it may have been an accident that she died, technically. Maybe you were holding her when your brother tried to rape you again and she fell, or maybe your father tried to touch her and you fought him and she suffered for it. But the fact is that she died and they had to burn for it.”

She had fallen to her knees and was openly sobbing.

“I will burn them over and over for it! I will set the world on fire!”

“Yes,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “truth is a torch.”

“Aidan!” she screamed out to the sky, “Aidan!”

When she raised her head again, Sherlock could see that the light of madness still shone brightly in her eyes and she called out to him.

“You are something special, Mr. Holmes. You have my thanks…for seeing. I’ll leave it to the fire to decide whether to purge you both or not. If you’re worthy you’ll surely be spared.”

Before he could run to intercept her, she connected the lighter with the oiled string and slit her throat with John’s knife.

* * *

It was a drier summer than usual, which is why the oiled string that Luiseach lit carried the fire almost instantly into the line of accelerant she had poured along the spinney. In turn, the edge of the field burst into flame in a line nearly ten meters long. The wind was carrying the blaze southeast, toward Sherlock and John. It wasn’t blowing quickly, but the fire was moving inevitably toward them. Sherlock knew he could try to pick up John but he couldn’t move his right arm at all. He calculated the risk of dropping John then calibrated the time that it would take to drag him along using the blanket with his weaker arm.

They could not outrun this fire.

Even though Sherlock usually deleted irrelevant data from the news, he recalled a discussion of wildfire management strategies that firefighters had used in Ireland during the forest fires of 2011. He pulled off his jacket and took out the book of matches he had grabbed earlier. After bracing the book against his knee, he was able to strike a match three tries later. He held the lit match against the liner of his jacket until it caught – wool was more flame resistant but the synthetic liner would transmit the fire to the rest of the garment. After verifying the wind direction, he quickly touched his jacket to a length of wheat stalks in a meter-long line downwind of their current position. They were dry and caught fire easily. He bunched up as much of the blanket as he could in one hand, and turned from the line of trees, preparing to move. The fire in front of him crackled away from them as the one behind rapidly approached. Sherlock pulled John across the scorched earth and knelt beside him as the smoke rose. His friend hadn’t moved in all the time that he was talking to Luiseach. It had been over two hours, and he could only presume that John had been unconscious all that time. He could tell that he hadn’t even had a chance to act in his own defense. John was still breathing, but his lack of responsiveness panicked Sherlock.

“John!”

He placed his forehead to his friend’s and cupped his hand around his face.

“John, please! Come back to me, please!”

Luiseach’s blaze had reached the starting point of Sherlock’s backfire and a wall of flames surrounded them. The ashes beneath them provided no fuel and they were bypassed, but the swirling smoke was pervasive and Sherlock coughed, eyes watering as he clung to his friend. They were both in the center of the inferno now.

_Please, God, let him live_

Sherlock kissed him and tears traced trails down the smuts on John’s face. He whispered into his mouth, calling his name. He sang to him, words from a children’s story about an unquenchable creature that sprang forth again and again unharmed from its own ashes.

John opened his eyes.

“Sherlock?”

“I love you, John, stay with me, I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

They remained there, unburnt, safe on the island he had created in the midst of the holocaust.


	7. Disparition

“Mr. Holmes, it is damned lucky that she bypassed your brachial artery,” the nurse said cheerfully, snapping a binder shut. She was cheerful in spite of the fact that he had deduced that she was in a polyamorous relationship. Sherlock supposed this had something to do with how he had already explained that the male nurse by John’s bed was about to have his house foreclosed on. Mycroft stared into space primly, maintaining a smug silence. Lestrade strode into the room and it became entirely too crowded. 

“What in the hell were you thinking, Sherlock?”

He seethed by the door, waiting for the medical staff to disperse. Sherlock’s nurse started a new IV bag for him and John’s nurse finished recording his vitals. Finally the room cleared and Sherlock addressed Lestrade. 

“I wasn’t certain that she wouldn’t harm John if I brought others with me. At the time I didn’t know if he was a hostage.”

“Wait, Sherlock. Say that again.”

“What? If he was a hostage?” 

“No. You said, ‘I didn’t know.’ I wanted to record that for posterity.”

“Shut up, Lestrade. Why don’t you go verify that the quantity of pharmaceuticals in the dispensing machine correlates with the numbers documented by the staff instead of bothering me? Someone’s filching narcotics.”

In the bed by the window, John rolled onto his side and called out,

“Sherlock?”

Dismissing Lestrade completely, Sherlock swung his legs off the bed, ignoring the pain in his arm. They had given him a local anesthetic when they stitched his arm up but he had insisted on taking half of the pain medication they offered him. It dulled his mind and he didn’t like to rely on chemicals anymore. As Sherlock nearly leapt over to John’s bed, he noticed a tug coming from his left arm – damn! The IV pole with its antibiotics and saline solution hanging from it…

Before he could unravel himself on his own, Lestrade rolled the monstrosity behind him so he could cross the room unimpeded. 

“John! John, how are you feeling now?”

As Sherlock bent over John and caressed his face with his good hand, Mycroft soundlessly extracted himself from the chair and left the room. Lestrade was right on his heels. 

In the hallway, Mycroft needlessly straightened his suit jacket and turned toward Lestrade.

“Detective Inspector, the doctors tell me that the two men will be discharged this morning so long as Dr. Watson remains stable through the night. The neurologist explained that he suffered a moderate head injury but that there is no permanent damage visible on his diagnostic images. I cannot imagine the hospital staff would want to endure the presence of my brother any longer than is absolutely necessary. I predict that you will find all the answers to this case you need around this afternoon at Baker Street.”

When Lestrade nodded understanding, Mycroft gave him a tight smile. Then, swinging his umbrella, he turned and walked toward the elevator. But before he could step in, he crooked his head back at Lestrade.

“Sherlock’s quite right, but don’t tell him I said so. Tonight’s charge nurse is recording twice the amount of oxycontin dispensed and selling the rest on the street.”

He walked in and the doors closed on him. Greg groaned audibly, his vision of a peaceful post-midnight coffee rendezvous with Molly vanishing like smoke in the wind. 

* * *

Lestrade walked upstairs to 221B and let himself in sometime after two – the door was unlocked. Sherlock was propped up with some pillows on the sofa and John was stretched out with his head on his lap, dozing, a hot water bottle on his head. Sherlock nodded his head in greeting and said, 

“Afternoon, Lestrade. Fancy a cuppa? If yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to make it yourself because I’m not moving.”

Greg dismissed him with a wave of his hand.  
  
“Yeah, I’ll get it. I’m guessing that’s your way of politely asking for some, too? You both look done in, though. I think I can handle helping you out this time.”

After a short while, Greg brought them two mugs and then took a seat with his tea in hand.

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised that at her flat we uncovered a damning amount of evidence. There were maps, surveillance tapes, recordings – video and sound, false identification documentation and a tablet computer. On the tablet were electronic journals with dates going back to 1994. They make for grim reading.”

Sherlock imperiously stretched out his left hand from the sofa.

Lestrade started.  
  
“How did you…? You know, I should be used to it by now.” He pulled out a thumb drive and went over to place it on the outstretched palm. Taking his seat again, he continued, “You may be able to make some more sense of the entries than I did, can maybe find some references to Moriarty’s doings. No doubt forensic psychologists will go through these for years to come.”

“No doubt,” he replied.

“Her primary station was Ruislip but she started going to Enfield to ‘volunteer’ – she told the chief she had a relative in the area that she stayed with sometimes. We know now she was stalking that postal worker in Romford; turns out he was headed to see his brother in Berwick, Sussex in another two weeks. By the way, the clips of him combined with the record from her lookout have led to his arrest. She actually had video surveillance of him and his niece; it’s disgusting. It’s going to take months to get all of her collaborators nabbed. She had an outrageous amount of money in a Swiss bank account, even though she lived quietly enough. She must have been using all the money to fund her habit and her vendetta.”

Sherlock maintained his silence; Greg assumed that meant all of his conjectures were correct.

“Look, Sherlock. Why did she take John, anyway? She had it all wrapped up pretty neatly. She didn’t necessarily need to make a trip to Sussex for number three. If he wasn’t a hostage, then what was it all for?”

The consulting detective had a strained look on his face. Greg realized that he wanted desperately to place his palms together but wasn’t able to because of the sling on his arm. Sherlock settled for placing his fingers on his chin.

“Luiseach was deeply disturbed. At the time I encountered her, she was in the throes of psychosis. She wasn’t able to explain why she had immobilized John and taken him to Sussex. Since the trauma of her childhood, she had been setting fires to deal with bouts of stress, but as she grew older it wasn’t enough. She began experiencing breaks from reality, induced by emotional triggers. Triggers can occur in the form of places, noises, images, tastes…and smells,” Sherlock paused and looked down at John. To Greg’s surprise, he stroked John’s jaw tenderly with his good hand and then cupped his hand around his face. He knew the relationship between the two men was intimate, but it was unusual for Sherlock to be so demonstrative. Maybe he was softening up after all these years. Greg was shaken from his reverie when John sleepily murmured,

“Yeah, go on, Sherlock, tell him, I know you’re smug about this and you’ve been waiting all morning for him to pop in.”

“Two weeks ago John began wearing the most hideous aftershave…”

“Oi!” put in John, poking him under the chin.

“…because his sister, to her discredit, purchased it for him and he indulged her by wearing it every chance he got.”

Here John sighed.

“Luiseach was clever. She had learned from Moriarty how to adopt a different persona and assumed the mannerisms of someone with a crush on their colleague. She managed to disguise the fact that she was horrified by John the first time we met, but the second time he saw her it triggered a psychosis.”

“But why?” said Lestrade, not following.

“The olfactory system – the sense of smell - can call up memories and powerful emotional responses almost instantly. As John in no way resembles Luiseach’s father or brother and has absolutely no behavioral traits with them in common, the only explanation for his inducement of her mental state was his use of the awful aftershave. The brand has been around for years and it must have been what one of Luiseach’s tormenters – most likely her father – used exclusively. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

Greg took a final sip of tea and nodded.

“It makes sense, I guess. We checked the hospitals around Ballyclare. No record anywhere of a Katherine Lindsay, but there was a thirteen-year old Katie Evans, delivered of a baby girl, Aidan Evans in March 1992 at Whiteabbey Hospital in Newtonabbey. No father was recorded on the birth certificate. There weren’t any records on follow-up care, either. That’s as close as we’ve been able to get. Poor woman – I feel sorry for her. She was probably miserable her whole life.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything and Greg wondered if he was imagining the distant look in his eyes.

“The two of you,” he shook his head, “get better. Try to stay in one piece. I may regret saying this, but call if you need anything. And look after each other.”

Sherlock smiled broadly, an absurd and immature grin that Greg had only seen once before from a distance, the night Jefferson Hope was killed. He realized he was seeing something intensely private – this was Sherlock’s smile for John.

“Always,” he replied.

Greg rinsed out his mug and placed it in the sink, then exchanged cordial farewells. As he walked down the stairs to the exit, he heard John say,

“I’m sure it’s not escaped your notice that I’ve left off wearing it, Sherlock…”


	8. Allégresse Générale et Berceuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Three weeks later, just after the last of Sherlock’s staples and stitches were removed, he surprised John by producing tickets for the ballet. John had been so wrapped up in the arson case that he had forgotten that there was a show they had planned to see at one point.

“We’re just in time for the final performance. I’ve gotten us a box.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

Sherlock looked away.

“Well….”

“You know what, don’t tell me. I’m sure the British Government has something to do with it – you can just pretend he didn’t and we’ll all be happier for it. Even so, I’m still a bit taken aback by it. Us and the ballet and all…I didn’t think that type of art interested you.”

“Oh, John. Surely you don’t think I go to the ballet to _watch_?”

* * *

Sherlock hadn’t merely procured tickets in a box. He had bought out the entire box closest to the center. On the grand tier. This left two empty seats in front of them. And while John was not exactly the best judge of these circumstances, he had to admit these seats provided both an excellent opportunity for listening and viewing of the ballet – not that Sherlock cared about the latter portion of the experience.

True to his word, Sherlock had closed his eyes as soon as the performance began. John supposed this was for the best. Seeing the dancers, even from a distance, could only lead to conjectures on their backstage activities, which, John concluded reasonably, would detract from enjoyment of the music. He could tell that Sherlock was enraptured, though. He was rhythmically moving his left fingers and twitching his right hand, playing silently along with the orchestra – 1st violin part, almost certainly.

John was also having a good time. He was watching the dancers, appreciating the music…and gazing at Sherlock. It was difficult to split his attention into thirds, but John tried anyway. The principal dancer was ethereally graceful and long-legged, with smooth coffee skin. It perfectly coordinated with her costume of scarlet and gold, and as she danced, limbs flowing in time with the music, she reflected light out into the audience for far too brief a time. The visual spectacle paled in comparison to the music, though – John began to feel that Sherlock might have had a point. The performance was almost at a halfway point, and the piece that moved through the opera house now swelled with promise and passion. As the glorious sounds combined into one orchestral voice, John felt his blood sing with expectation and the sheer joy of being alive. He stole another look at Sherlock, and as the music grew from mezzo-piano to forte, he thought he saw a pink blush creep across his cheeks.

The movement tapered after the crescendo and the dancers paused, some of them delicately retreating back into the wings. The curtain came down and the house lights rose. Sherlock opened his eyes and John saw his pupils adjust. He stood up and tugged his jacket.

“Shall we?”

John felt suddenly naked underneath his gaze. He knew that Sherlock accorded him as much privacy as it was possible for him to give, but right now he was aware that he was purposefully being _observed_. This time, he welcomed it with an almost primal glee and met his friend’s eyes, staring back hungrily. He stood up without breaking the eye contact and said,

“Yes, let’s.”

They left the box and made their way to the champagne bar, picking up the two glasses they had ordered earlier and ducking away from the crowd into a shallow recess.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked him, after taking a quick sip of champagne.

John smiled. Since leaving the theatre, they had barely looked away from each other’s eyes and he could feel a tingling in his chest that had nothing to do with the (admittedly excellent) vintage champagne.

“I think it’s beautiful. There’s no recording that could ever compare.”

His friend chuckled and nodded agreement.

“Sherlock, what are you thinking about when you’re listening?”

He looked away and John saw a twist of his lips before he turned back. Sherlock reached out with a napkin for the space underneath John's chin with a quiet, “oh.” Sighing, John supposed he had spilled champagne on himself and allowed the man to wipe….

Wait.

Before John knew it, Sherlock’s deft fingers had unhooked the top button of his shirt and darted back to his own glass. He looked into the flute and replied,

“You. I’m thinking about…you.”

John was suddenly glad that Sherlock had unbuttoned his collar because he was certain now that it would have become too tight around his throat. That voice alone…a warmth bloomed across his face. Even though it had been more than a year since they expanded their friendship, the man still found new ways to amaze him. He shouldn’t have been surprised. When they were “just friends” Sherlock had constantly astounded him. John knew that this between them would never be boring.

Sherlock leaned over and slid a single finger around John’s throat, circling under his chin, then bent down and pressed his face into his neck under his ear. He scarcely moved, simply inhaling and exhaling deeply against John’s skin. His soft curls swept gently around John’s cheek. Then he murmured,

“Firebird…” and touched his lips to his neck. He didn’t kiss, nibble, or lick the skin there – he just rested his mouth against John’s pulse point, feeling. It was almost unbearably hot to have Sherlock curled around his neck and he shuddered. He felt Sherlock smile against his skin at his reaction, and knew that he picked up the sudden increase in his pulse rate. God, how this man could take him apart.

They stood there secluded in the low light, motionless. Afterward, John could not recollect exactly how long they paused there together; he gave up trying and chalked it up as a temporal anomaly. He only knew when the chimes came over the speakers and the lights flickered to prompt the audience back to the theatre. Sherlock broke away from him slowly and swallowed the rest of his champagne in one graceful gulp. John was mesmerized by the working of that long throat. He let his imagination run wild for a moment, pictured himself laving his tongue from up that suprasternal notch to just beneath his earlobe and breathing, kissing and sucking over that spot until Sherlock shivered against him. He blinked several times, pocketing the fantasy away for the future (oh, soon, _please_ ) and finished his own champagne.

He turned toward his friend and grabbed him by the arm, leading them both back into the grand tier. They took their seats side-by-side, John on the right, and as the lights dimmed, Sherlock sought out his left hand and in one fluid motion unhooked his cuff. Closing his eyes as the music began again, he trailed nimble fingers over John’s wrist and pressed them into his pulse, which thrummed rapidly, almost increasing along with the pace of the music, which had taken on a desperate and incendiary beat. John was barely aware of the drama on the stage below, which involved multiple dancers in a frenzied conflict. Not to be outdone, John slowly shifted his body over to the left and with a doctor’s perfect precision moved his right hand to press into Sherlock’s inner thigh, to feel his pulse through his femoral artery.

That pulse leapt up quickly against John’s touch, and though Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, he inhaled sharply and jerked his head back once.

_oh, yes_

They wouldn’t take it any farther here, but they both knew that the combination of music and tentative contact was stoking up the fire between them to unparalleled heights. John began thinking of synonyms for the word fever. Sherlock was considering potential addendums to the laws of thermodynamics. Both of them started perspiring in response to the sweltering heat they had created.

* * *

It shouldn’t have been possible to vacate a crowded location that quickly, but over the years they had garnered considerable expertise in the art of evasion. It was nearly indecent how hastily they intercepted the other patrons of the opera and stuffed themselves into a cab. Before Sherlock could pull himself any closer across the seat toward him, John planted a searing palm in the middle of his chest and sternly looked him in the eye. They didn’t speak aloud, but this is what was shared nevertheless:

_So help me, Sherlock, if you get any closer I will take you right now and they will need to arrest me to get me off of you._

_Sounds...dangerous._

_No, stay over there. Besides, I’ll make it worth your wait._

As he cocked one eyebrow sassily at Sherlock, he knew he had the upper hand. But the silent response he received in return fanned the embers he had banked at the theatre into roaring flame again.

_The Game is On, John Watson._

* * *

When they entered 221B downstairs, John could hear the thud of his own heart in his ears. It was beating like a drum; not like the percussive instruments from the carefully arranged performance they had attended, but in the simple and savage rhythm of a Bonfire Night. He felt his blood superheating underneath his skin as he followed Sherlock up the stairs and he started roughly unbuttoning his shirt. He heard Sherlock take the steps two at a time after turning the corner. John trailed behind him, putting distance between them purposefully.

As soon as John shut the door behind him Sherlock advanced from the center of the sitting room, eyes glowing silver, lips wet and just slightly parted. He had already stripped off his jacket and his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist. His feet were bare. John held out his hands in front of him and slowly sidestepped to the kitchen.

“Sherlock, I’m moving into the bedroom now.”

“Obviously.”

John backed away through the kitchen as Sherlock trailed after him predatorily, his feet moving silently on the floor. John untucked his shirt from his trousers and let it fall to the floor. Sherlock peeled his own shirt off, leaving it behind. John couldn’t help but focus on his right arm, where he had been stabbed. The wound had healed nicely but he would have a scar. John resolved not to press his limits tonight, although he knew Sherlock would disregard any danger to his own person.

John felt the bedroom door at his back and as he turned to walk in Sherlock rammed into him from behind and crowded him onto the bed, almost lifting him up bodily. He fell onto the bed face forward and scrambled around in time for Sherlock to sprawl on top of him. The taller man ground his hips into John, gasping as he pressed up against him. John wound his fingers into his hair and pulled his face to him, bucking up hard with his own hips in turn. They both moaned together and John drove his tongue deep up into him, flexing it in a wave-like motion. Sherlock’s brain reached sensory overload for two seconds before he rallied and pulled away; then he dove back in, burying his head alongside John’s neck, sucking next to his ear and then licking all the way down to his waist in one unbroken line. John groaned as he felt supple fingers at his waistband.

“Hell, Sherlock, oh, hell,” he said, and he kicked his shoes and socks off. Sherlock undid John’s zip and then rolled down his trousers and pants at the same time. As John tried to sit up, Sherlock pushed him down again and wrapped a hand around his cock.

“Oh, Sherlock!”

This was the first time Sherlock had touched him with his dominant arm since he had been stabbed. After their injuries they had turned to gentler sexual acts to sate themselves; John in particular had extensive opportunities to practice his oral technique due to the nature of Sherlock’s injury.

They were both relieved that gentle activities were not on tonight’s menu.

John melted into the bed as Sherlock serviced him. The man was a genius at everything, including hand jobs. He started out loosely and slowly near the base of John’s cock, subtly increasing pressure. Sherlock gently circled the fingers of his other hand along each of John’s balls, from one to the other and then back again. It seemed that with each stroke and in gradients of less than a millimeter at a time he moved closer toward the tip, passing a thumb over the slick and shiny head at random intervals. Before long John was helplessly thrusting up into Sherlock’s hand.

He rolled away from Sherlock abruptly, pushing his arm away. He could already feel heat uncoiling up through his groin and he wanted to put that to better use tonight. Panting, he tried to rationalize.

“No, not...too soon. You’re going to make me come too soon, love, you’re too bloody good at that.”

There was a dark chuckle from his friend.

“I’ll defer to your wishes for now.”  
  
“Well, for now you’re still wearing too many clothes.” John tipped him over effortlessly and pushed him down onto the bed. He heatedly pressed into his mouth, sucking both his top and bottom lips alternately. Then he moved his head down along his friend’s body and let his right hand travel down to his trouser fastenings. With an evil grin, he fastened his lips over Sherlock’s left nipple as his right hand undid his belt buckle, top button and zip.

“Hngh….you… John!”

Sherlock writhed up under him as John fluttered his tongue against the tip of his nipple and simultaneously reached into his damp pants to fist his cock. Sherlock’s nipples were sensitive, John had discovered, and he was delighted by the exquisite verbal responses he could easily provoke. Sherlock was reduced to incoherent cries now as John stroked and suckled him. His mouth fell open as he looked down into John’s eyes; unable to find words, Sherlock ran loving fingers through the sandy hair and allowed his head to fall back onto the bed. John moved from one nipple to the other and increased the pace of his hand. Sherlock was moaning constantly and John felt his fluid seeping over the top of his hand when he heard,

“Please, please, John, stop!”

John pulled his head up and stilled his hand.

“Yes, love, what is it?” He kept his tone light although he was fairly certain his body betrayed him. He was shaking with barely-restrained lust and Sherlock was covered in a delicious full body sweat.

“John, I need you.”

John felt his heart skip a beat. He always felt that way when Sherlock spoke frankly with him. He pulled Sherlock’s trousers and pants completely off, then moved back up the bed to place his forehead against his friend’s. He kissed him softly. He took both of his hands and their fingers intertwined. He knew Sherlock could feel him trembling.

“Sherlock, I need you, I love you. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

_And please know that I always will_

“I want you inside me. I want to come around you.”

“God, yes, Sherlock, yes.”

And, oh, the man was already rolling over onto his front. Well, then. When Sherlock was on all fours in front of him, John’s height worked to his best advantage and he could take them both to pieces. After ensuring that there were a multitude of pillows in place to help Sherlock support his arms, he pulled the bottle from the nightstand and squeezed out an overly generous measure. John knew they were both tightly wound and would want haste. Sherlock moaned and flexed against him beautifully as he prepared him with his fingers; by the time he had worked two fingers into him he was pushing back against him, causing John’s brain to short-circuit.

“Please, John, _please_.”

The urgent tone convinced him. And John didn’t really think he could wait any longer. His friend’s dark head was bowed down and his soft curls were shining in the lamplight. His pale back gleamed with the sheen of perspiration; two droplets rolled from the center of his spine off his back. John lost his concentration and curved himself over his friend to trail his tongue across his well-defined spine, down into the cleft of his arse.

“God, John…” his lover’s voice hitched and caught on his name. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to tease, I promise. You’re…too tempting,” John said, breathing heavily. “Here, now, love, ease down…” he ran a hand up his back all the way to his neck. Sherlock relaxed into his touch and leaned forward onto the pillows, moving his elbows and head down. He turned his face to the side and John saw the tenderness in his eyes. John kissed the tips of his own fingers and pressed them against the base of his spine.

He grabbed another handful of lubricant and spread it on himself, sighing into his own touch. He placed one hand on Sherlock’s hip and, taking himself in hand, pushed against his entrance…soft, smooth…felt him stretch slightly enough to admit his head, and then, that was it. He slid all the way in, his full length inside that tight hotness.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” he cried, throwing his head back.

“John, John beloved.”

It was almost too much and he fought back against the surge of warmth from his core. The moment finally passed and he panted heavily, placing one hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and rubbing lightly. He felt drenched in sweat and was already sticking to his lover’s arse and thighs.

“Are you alright, love?”

“Please, yes, please, _move_.”

It was the same urgency from before. John eased back from the depths, withdrew all but his tip and slowly plunged back in. He repeated it five times, drove all the way in again and swung in slow circles with his hips. Sherlock let out a low moan and moved with him, sensuously matching his strokes rather than pressing firmly against him. John laughed and shallowly dipped in and out of him, moving a bit faster now, and they were almost dancing. This was the heart of them, the fire between them that could not be vanquished, and they both felt it as they moved into one another. They became quiet, breathing silently, as they recognized the significance of this, of what they had become to one another.

“I love you,” it was whispered, but John heard it and his soul leapt. He had heard it before but now it was given again, given in this moment of joy. He draped himself over Sherlock’s back and wrapped his arms around him.

“And I love you, even though you’re the phoenix, not me.”

Sherlock laughed, a harsh bark that sounded more like a sob.

“I must disagree. But if that’s the way you feel….then maybe we are well matched.”

Now John wanted to cry, whether Sherlock was or not. But instead, John moved again, slowly thrusting and replied,

“I do feel that way. And I think we are perfectly matched.

“Show me.”

“Yes,” he breathed out, and, gripping Sherlock’s hips tightly, he withdrew almost all the way again and swiftly pushed back in. He repeated the movement, and with each successive thrust he picked up momentum and force, until he was snapping his hips up into Sherlock, fast and hard. They were beyond words now, and the combined warmth rising up through their bodies galvanized them toward mutual candescence. As John felt himself teetering toward the edge of bliss, he reached down and around to grasp his lover, who still had his arms pressed against the bed.

“No, John, no,” he moaned.

John panted, “Want to do this for you…”

Sherlock was trembling; John felt him tighten around his cock and he began to understand all at once.

“No, you won’t ha-”

Sherlock broke off with jubilant laughter and spurted hotly onto the bed. John was tinder, he was dry kindling, and Sherlock was the spark. There was no holding back, and with one thrust John shouted and let go inside of him.

* * *

They were speechless for some time afterward, holding on to one another as if adrift at sea. John had wordlessly verified that Sherlock’s arm was unaffected by their exertions and gathered him up in his arms again. Sherlock finally broke the silence.

“I didn’t know I had the capacity for climaxing without manual stimulation.”

John chuckled and turned his head up to kiss his cheek.

“Well, that makes two of us. I guess we’re doing something right - that was rather an incredible thing to witness.”

He could feel heat rising up in his lover’s face at the compliment and was heartily glad he had said it.

“I knew it was possible based on my research, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Do you think you have the ability, too?”

Now John laughed louder, and Sherlock joined him. As John’s laughs became quiet giggles he replied,

“I can’t be sure, but that sounds like it requires experimentation. I might be persuaded to participate, given proper motivation.”

* * *

Sometime that fall the two men went to Sussex, shortly after Mycroft stopped by with a package for Sherlock. Sherlock had somehow never gotten around to telling John that he had inherited some land near Eastbourne when he was in his late twenties. When John commented on how odd it was that Sherlock owned a house and property, he received a sardonic look and the remark,

“John. Don’t you know everything I have is yours, too? Anyway, I thought we straightened this out with all that paperwork.”

And while that was technically true, John was still reeling. He just hadn’t known the full extent of what they now owned jointly. He asked if Sherlock had any other properties and got a somewhat alarming “not yet” in response. He was delighted, however, to discover that the little house was charming. It had three bedrooms and a kitchen. There was a garden, although the greenery appeared to have been neglected for some time. If John listened closely enough, he thought he could almost hear the sounds of the Channel.  

They arrived in late afternoon and John carried in their bags. They would only be staying for a night or two, depending on how quickly they got bored. He found the kitchen well equipped enough for a brief visit – Sherlock apparently had a contact in the village that was willing to provide some basic supplies and housekeeping. Sherlock was pacing around in the decrepit garden, still holding the package Mycroft had delivered. Eventually he wandered off into the nearby fields.

John explored the house and picked out some tempting items for a supper. He put the kettle on and unpacked their laptops. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, John put his coat back on and walked outside. It looked as though Sherlock had assembled a pile of kindling in a field far behind the house.

* * *

After they were discharged from hospital that summer, Sherlock had shared with John all the details of Luiseach’s end. John had subsequently dubbed the case, “The Lighting of the Last Fire.” The title was as juvenile (though admittedly catchy) as the rest of the case names on the blog, but it wasn’t quite accurate. She had one more fire left. And for all that Sherlock baited John about his intelligence, he knew that he was actually quite perceptive. John’s suspicions had been raised as soon as Mycroft  delivered the brown paper-wrapped package to the flat.

He was walking up behind Sherlock now, in the center of a field that would one day, if all went well, complement a long-cherished aspiration of his. With the brush and dead wood he had assembled, Sherlock had created a small platform. He placed the package in the center of the woodpile and stood back.

John, dear John, placed his hand on his right arm, directly over the place where he had been stabbed. His John knew when there was a time for words and when there was not. He simply held out a book of matches to Sherlock, a silent offering. Sherlock struck a match, and in spite of the wind, it caught fire immediately. He crouched down to the pile and lit the dried grasses he had tucked in amongst the wood. Slowly, the flame covered the wood and began to consume the package. As the sun reached down to kiss the horizon, the dying light combined with the flames of the pyre to cast a golden glow on the field. It was an appropriate tribute for one whose life was corrupted too soon after it began. And if there was peace anywhere for her, it was here.

The two men stood there, arm-in-arm, long after sunset. They kept the fire company until nothing remained but ash and glowing embers.

* * *

Sherlock was up and about early the next morning, tramping about the meadow again. He had a vision for this field and the field farther in the distance. He eyed the distant field, picturing square structures in orderly rows, cordoned off with wire fences to deter traipsing bypassers. As he contemplated the design of this future enterprise, he heard John come up from behind him. He suspected that the man was carrying two mugs of tea and resisted the impulse to turn and verify.

“Tea, Sherlock?” his lover asked.

“Yes, thank you.” He smirked down into the mug. 

“You’re looking pleased with yourself this morning. Plans?”

“How do you feel about bees?”

The shorter man pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow.

“Hmm, bees. Bit necessary, them, don’t you think? Pollinating the flowers and all. Plus there’s the honey, that’s always lovely. Why?”

Sherlock laughed.

“I like the way you think, John.”

“Yeah, me, too. Say, don’t get too cold out here. You want eggs? Only they’ll go to waste if we don’t eat them.”

“Yes, I’ll be in momentarily.”

John turned away from him and walked back to the house. As he left, Sherlock looked at the field he was standing in now. Bees would appreciate wildflowers. True to their name, wildflowers would require no attention whatsoever, leaving plenty of time for more important matters. He would throw down carefully selected seeds of poppy, pimpernel, sweet william, bog asphodel, ragwort, tansy, snapdragon and charlock. Something would be certain to spring up here. And Sherlock knew that whatever did grow would bloom only in shades of scarlet, vermilion, orange, yellow and gold – colours he would forever associate with John Watson.


	9. Coda - Le Jardin Enchanté

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This coda concludes Unquenchable. This chapter and chapter eight were released at the same time. Thank you so much for reading - I love feedback. I have one more story (for now) in the Forces of Nature series that I will release early next week.

**Kandahar**

**March 2009**

Captain Watson finishes reviewing the chart of his last patient, Private Jennings, before heading out the door. As he walks out, a cluster of children gathered around a veiled woman catches his eye. When he passes them, he notices that the woman is singing for them in Pashto, with words from another language thrown in – Russian? The woman must have spent some time with the Soviets in the early eighties. The captain tries to string the words along to connect into a story that makes sense, but he hears so many contradictions that he gives up. He listens for a time, though, catching as many of the broken pieces as possible. Finally he turns to walk to the village market, humming a translated melody that he almost forgets.

_And in my dreams I’m on a wolf’s back,_

_riding in a forest…_

_alongside a powerful czar_

_to fight in a land against a waiting princess._

_And behind walls, a glass palace with a garden_

_where there’s fire singing at night_

_birds eating golden fruit_

**Author's Note:**

> For a musical accompaniment to this story, consider “Khorovode (or Ronde) de Princesses” from The Firebird by Igor Stravinsky. It’s pure romance. Two other movements of exceptional beauty are “Berceuse” and the Finale, which incorporates music from the Second Tableau.
> 
> Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.


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